Reblooming
by BlackAndWhiteRabbit
Summary: 'You were surely going crazy, and you surely didn't care.' Or, A story of how a scrap of burnt canvas and her "father" reunite. One-shot. Guertena!fic (?) Slight spoilers.


**Hm. Testing out second person a little, and also experimenting with a character we don't see much of in Ib; Guertena.**

**Well, it's up to you whether this kid here is Guertena or not. You guys decide what you believe~ ^^**

**Sorry if this is a little confusing, it's intentionally that way. Also, this is unbeta'd, so I apolgize in advance for any mistakes.**

**Hopefully this gives Mary the ending she was hoping for.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ib or any of the characters here. I don't own ****_anything, _****actually. Haha.**

* * *

.

_why did you leave, daddy?_)

(_why did you-_)

(_you left me all alone_)

(_why, father? Why did you leave us? Me?)_

(**_why-_**)

.

.

You were never much of an art person.

Sure, you liked to doodle every now and then, and you weren't half bad at it if you said so yourself. But you were never much of an art person, at least not for all this new, modern, art.

Hell, you're only 22 and you don't understand what half of this "contemporary" crap is. It just looks like scribbles and lines to you.

So even you don't understand why, for all of the things you could do on your day off, you're _here_. At the city art gallery.

A large banner hangs out front, announcing some new exhibition for a man named "Guertena" or something. You don't know why, but the name strikes a chord in you. Vaguely you wonder if you've maybe heard it somewhere before, but then again, probably not.

You push open the doors and walk inside. No one looks at you twice. Just a young college student on holiday, nothing special. That's exactly what you are, and you know it.

You still don't understand why you came here. But you know what; it isn't like you had anything better to do. You've always been a virtual loner, speaking only to those you needed to and leaving out any other forms of social interaction. It's your way of life, and you're fine with it.

You take a flier for the exhibition from the front desk after you buy your ticket, and absently flip through the pages, looking at the artwork but not really _seeing_ it, not at all.

The art's not half bad, once you start looking at it. You read a little and find out that Guertena was an old, _old_ Spanish artist, a young man whose life was as mysterious as his death. He was barely older than you when he died, a bitter death that according to the paper was most likely caused by starvation. Apparently artists back then were _truly_ starving artists.

He died a bitter death, due to no one even giving him a second glance, a _chance_ to prove to them what he could do.

It was a shame. He really wasn't a bad artist. His lifelike portraits and strange, almost abstract sculptures were a hell of a lot better than most of what you saw today.

Your favorite, though, was his wall mural. _Fabricated World_, it was called, and what a fitting name. The drawing was covered in every color imaginable, and every creature imaginable. It painted a strange and mysterious picture of a world beyond their own, one that seemed so real that you had to stop yourself from reaching out and just _touching_ it.

It's there that you met the girl.

Well, you didn't exactly _meet_ her; not at first. No, at first you heard her. A tiny little voice, that no one else but you seemed to hear. The tiny, pitiful voice of a brokenhearted little girl who only wanted to be loved.

"Help me" was all she said.

You ignored it.

Of course you ignored it; you didn't think it was real. You ignored it and you left the gallery that day, feeling oddly at peace with the world for once.

But of course you came back.

You didn't know what it was about the exhibition hat drew you in, couldn't explain it to anyone that asked. You just kept coming back, whether it be the next day or the next week, and every time you did you went back to that wall mural.

And every time you heard the voice.

"Help me"

"Please"

"I'm so lonely"

"_Please_"

And each time you ignored it, because surely you must be going crazy, and you surely didn't care.

"Why do you hate me too?"

That's what finally made you answer. You looked around at the empty air, and feeling foolish even as you did so, answered the tiny little pitiful voice.

"I don't hate you."

"Then why do you ignore me?"

You remained silent. A sound that was suspiciously similar to a child's sob is what made you speak again.

"Where are you?"

"Down here."

You looked down, and you saw it. A tiny scrap of canvas, lying on the ground. A canvas that held just the hint of what might have been yellow paint, but you couldn't really tell. For all of the edges were charred and broken, as if someone had burned a painting or something.

Still feeling extremely foolish, you picked it up and examined it. "You want me to help you..?"

"Yes." This time, you could tell. The voice came directly from the tiny scrap of burnt canvas with the tiny spot of yellow paint on it.

You were surely going crazy, and you surely didn't care.

"How?" was all you said.

She told you she wanted you to paint her. You were confused, obviously you were, but she assured you that you would know how.

So you took the little scrap of canvas home with you that day, and the next day you went and bought an easel, a new canvas, and several different types of paint. You just picked out the first ones you saw; green and blue and yellow and white, and some other colors that were necessary to create a human visage.

You began to paint.

And though you had never been much of an art person, never been much of an _artist_, somehow something came out.

Now that you think back on it, it was almost as if you were possessed. You don't remember doing anything but painting during that time, and you can't even think of what you were thinking at the time of the painting. But you remember the little girl's voice, cheering you on. And that's all you needed at the time.

What was forming was a painting of a small girl, a small smiling girl with bright blue eyes and blonde hair and a green dress with white frills that seemed far too proper for these modern times.

Then again, you always had liked the older art.

The girl in the painting was surrounded by roses, yellow ones, but after a moment of thinking you started adding other colors too. Red roses and blue roses and pink roses and roses of any color you could think of, until the entire background of the painting was filled with a rainbow sea of roses. The girl remained strangely silent during this, and you never found out why.

You were almost finished with the painting. But there was one spot, near the very bottom, that was missing. It was the latter half was a yellow rose, and you had refrained from painting it for a reason.

You carefully put glue in the spot, and even more carefully pasted that spot of burnt canvas into the painting. And then, as delicate and neatly as you could, you blended it into the painting until it looked absolutely _flawless._

You were rather proud of yourself, you had to admit.

The voice had gone silent with what you hoped was awe, and then in a second you heard the joyful squeals of absolute happiness, like that of a child whose father has finally come home from the war.

You didn't think she would ever stop thanking you. You just couldn't wrap your head around the fact that you painted _that._

You fell asleep that night, tired beyond belief, and when you woke up she was sitting in your room, playing with the hem of her dress and looking way too transparent but still tangible enough to be seen.

And to be felt, apparently, as seconds after you woke up she pushed you back down onto the bed in a giant hug, tears slipping down her cheeks as she repeated "You came back, daddy, you came _back_" and you had no idea what she was talking about in the slightest. But you just wrapped your arms around her and let her cry, this strange little girl that wasn't actually a little girl but rather a painting that you had somehow saved from the brink of death.

You had given up in trying to understand it by now.

She told you her name was Mary, and she _insisted_ your name was Andrew Guertena, and you were her father. You didn't argue, because, honestly, there was no point. She had made up her mind.

She told you of how she had waited alone, for so long, and then how people had come to save her. A girl and a man, two complete strangers that were just so _nice_. She wanted to be their friend.

But instead, they burned her.

Somehow, you knew there was more to that part of the story, but you never asked and she never told you. It was better that way.

She told you how only a slight piece of her canvas remained, of how she barely clung on to life, and of how she came to find that her daddy came back for her and saved her again.

You still didn't understand, but you went along with it.

She told you she loved you, and she clung to your hand as if it were the only thing keeping her from burning up and disappearing again. Which, in a way, it probably was.

And you didn't know exactly why, (but then again, maybe you did) but you loved her too. It was a strange, maternal kind of love, and for some reason you truly felt like the father she claimed you to be.

And one day, you finally told her that. You smiled at her, and said it simply, quickly.

"I love you."

Just three words.

But her fragile little painted face crumpled up and suddenly she was sobbing, but she was laughing too and you didn't know what else to do but wrap your arms around her until she stopped.

"I hated you."

You didn't move.

"I hated you _so much,_ father…you left us, you left _me_, but..."

You remained silent, and waited for her to finish. You had always been patient.

"Then you came _back_ and I just couldn't….I couldn't…"

You smiled at her quietly, ruffling her hair like a gentle father would. She let out a small gasp, and buried her face in your chest again. But it was lighter than before, and you realized.

You realized what was happening, why _this_ was happening, now.

She knew it, and you knew it, and though some part of you wanted to stop it, you knew you couldn't.

It was time for her to go.

_But she still had some things left to say._

"I missed you."

The words were barely audible, but you heard them none the less. And although you still didn't understand, and probably never would, you took a step back, smiled at her, and said as sincerely as you could,

"I'm sorry, Mary. I'm back."

She made a soft, content noise and stepped backwards, looking up at you with watery eyes. Standing on her tippy-toes, she pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

"I love you, daddy."

And you closed your eyes, and you said it back.

You thought you heard a soft laugh.

And then when you opened your eyes again, she was gone, but the painting was whole again.

.

You decided it should go back where it belongs, now that its purpose was fulfilled.

The next day you went to the gallery, and left the painting on their doorstep with an anonymous letter claiming it was a lost piece of Guertena's. They accepted it as truth, and thus the painting "Mary" was accepted into the gallery.

But there was a tight feeling in your chest as you did it, and suddenly you understood how so many parents feel watching their children go off into the world alone.

You began your daily visits to the gallery once more. This time, there was no pitiful voice pleading for help, only a blissful silence.

And a few occasional childish giggles, but you brushed that off as a trick of the ears with a secret grin.

One day, a few men came to the gallery with what was believed to be a portrait of Andrew Guertena (for, as you found out later, his name was Andrew, just like yours) himself.

You stared at it for a few moments, and then _you_, that quiet, antisocial college student who never said more than two or three words, laughed hysterically.

Guertena looked _just like you._

Suddenly, everything made so much sense.

And you might not have believed in rebirth, but you sure as hell believed in strange (but fortunate) coincidences.

As you left the gallery that day, you heard a breathy voice say something, something like

"_Bye bye, daddy. Come back soon._"

You ignored it, but you smiled nonetheless.

Yes, you were surely going crazy, and you surely didn't care.

.

(_you came back, daddy)_

_(you came __**back**__)_

_(I missed you so much)_

_._

_._

_(I love you)_


End file.
